


Hairpin Turns

by CocoBadShip



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Homophobia, M/M, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Racism, The Falcon and the Winter Soldier (TV) Trailers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:09:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26265514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CocoBadShip/pseuds/CocoBadShip
Summary: AKA 5 Times Sam Wilson Didn’t Realize Bucky Barnes Was In Love With Him (+ 1 Time He Did)
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Sam Wilson
Comments: 54
Kudos: 328





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> AKA "The author creates their own version of 'The Falcon and the Winter Soldier'"

1.

Sam feels like he’s on fire. 

He struggles to catch his breath as he kneels on the ground. His lungs burn with every inhale. His heart is _pounding_ , ferociously striking his ribcage with shocking force. Sharp blades of grass jab themselves into Sam’s hands and knees. Sam’s covered in sweat; every inch of him is slick with it. His worn, ragged sleeveless clings uncomfortably to his sticky skin. The scent is so strong it makes him sick. And the shield—the ridiculously, impossibly heavy shield—is starting to slip off of Sam’s wrist.

Fuck. Sam needs to get up. 

Sam growls as he pushes himself off of the ground. He grips the shield’s strip and roughly yanks it back up his wrist. He pulls the strap, and he ignores the burn of the it digging into his already-raised and bruised skin. 

The shield fit much better when Steve handed it to him that day. It’d fit perfectly back then. It made Sam think he was actually ready for this. 

He knows better now, though. 

Sam stands up straight, taking a deep, painful breath. One more throw. Just one more throw and then he can collapse onto the ground the way his body is _begging_ him to. 

Sam takes another deep breath. He tightens his abs and back muscles, pinching his shoulder blades. He draws his arm back, feeling the weight of the shield as he moves. His arm is _shaking_ : Sam has to force it still. He takes three swift steps forward, brings his arm forward and throws the shield with as much force as he can muster. 

The shield hums as it sails through the air. The sound is quiet, but piercing. After what feels like an eternity, the shield crashes into a tree way past the fence around their backyard. The shield cuts through the bark, lodging itself firmly into the trunk. 

Sam blinks the sweat out of his eyes and sighs. He’s never gotten it stuck in a tree before. Guess that must be progress for him. 

“That’s _way_ further than just a couple of hours ago.”

Sam’s stomach flutters at the words. He turns around to see Bucky sitting on the stairs, looking impressed as he considers the shield.

Sam rakes his eyes over Bucky. Buck’s shirtless, only wearing black basketball shorts and a pair of black tennis shoes that look suspiciously like a pair Sam owns. His metal arm is on full display. He’s got a towel draped over his shoulder and a bottle of water in his hand. Sam takes in Bucky’s freshly buzzed head and snorts; Bucky keeps shaving his head, lobbing his hair off before it can grow past a couple of inches. Nothing about his look resembles the Winter Soldier now. 

“How do you know what I did a couple of hours ago?” Sam challenges. “Weren’t you working out inside?” 

Bucky shifts his gaze to Sam and smirks. Sam’s heart skips a beat as he and Bucky make eye contact. Sam _really_ does need rest.

“That was forever ago, man,” Bucky says. “I’ve already finished and showered and everything.”

Sam frowns. “But . . . “

Sam takes another look at Bucky. There’s a faint red tint to Bucky’s arms and shoulders, and his buzzed hair looks a little damp; so, he _has_ been in the shower. Well, then, how long has Sam . . . ?

“You’ve been out here for _hours_ , dollface,” Bucky answers Sam’s unspoken question. “I came out here to get you.” 

Sam sways on his feet. He tries to remember what time he came out to train; it was early in the morning, when the sun was really just starting to rise. And now the sun’s getting low. 

“ _Shit_.”

He rubs at his eyes with the back of his wrist. The sweat from his skin makes his eyes burn like hell, and Sam instantly regrets bringing the two together. 

Bucky pulls the towel from his shoulder and holds it and the bottle of water out to Sam. 

“Come get it.” 

Sam rolls his eyes at the command, but he stumbles forward and takes the towel and water, anyway. 

“Thanks.” 

Bucky moves over so that Sam can plop down the stairs next to him. Sam groans as he pats his eyes, face and neck dry. Sam drops the towel into his lap so he can take a big gulp of the water. It’s so cold it actually kind of hurts Sam’s throat, but that doesn’t deter him from drinking.

“You know,” Bucky says, “there _is_ a such thing as ‘too much training.’” 

“Maybe for _you_ ,” Sam retorts as he screws the cap back on. “And maybe there was for Steve. But I ain’t either one of you, so . . .” 

Bucky looks at Sam through narrowed eyes. 

“You’re not that much _different_ , though. Didn’t you use to say you did what Steve did, just slower?” 

Sam flinches. The sound of his own words coming back to bite him is very unpleasant. It sounded good at the time, didn’t it? 

“The _slower_ part is the problem, Buck.” 

Sam leans back against the stairs, not even bothering to prop himself on his elbows. The hard wood of the stairs feels oddly comfortable to Sam’s sore back. 

“If I’m going to have Steve’s job, then I need to be faster than I used to be,” Sam says. “A _lot_ faster.”

Bucky nods at Sam, a thoughtful expression on his face as he takes in Sam’s words. Then he shrugs.

“It’s not _Steve’s_ job anymore, though,” he says quietly. 

Sam’s stomach drops. He tries not to think about _that_ too much. It makes absolutely no sense—and is practically impossible—for him to avoid the subject of Steve’s death. But Sam still tries. 

“Yeah, well,” Sam mutters, “I still need to be faster.”

Bucky hums, but doesn’t argue with Sam. They just sit there for a moment, letting silence drape itself over them. 

Sam’s arm starts to shake again. This time, his shoulders join it. God, he’s tired. He could sleep for days, if he had the chance. But he’ll never have that chance again, so he might as well get that out of his head now. Any chance at that type of the rest went to the pits the second he held that shield.

Speaking of . . .

“ _Fuck_ , I need to get the shield.” 

Sam groans and pushes himself off of the stairs leaving the water and towel aside. But before he can take another step, Bucky hops up and starts walking towards the fence.

“I’ll get it,” he calls over his shoulder. “You go take a shower. Maybe eat something, too.” 

Sam wants to say something smart to Bucky. But all he can do is nod. 

“ _Thank you,_ ” Sam manages. 

Bucky raises his metal hand over his shoulder as he walks. 

“No problem, Cap.” 

Sam staggers, caught off-guard by the word. He opens his mouth to say _something, anything_ in response. But nothing comes out.

**

Natasha used to fuss at Sam about showering in scorching hot water. 

She once gave Sam a lecture about it forever ago. She rattled off a bunch of facts about how the hot water dries skins and damages the moisture barrier, and Sam had just blinked at her. It was one of Natasha’s more nerdy moments, where she dropped the veneer of being one of the most lethal spies in the world and became the woman who liked to geek out about science and beauty and movies and videogames. 

They were rare, these moments, but when they made their appearance, it was always a treat. 

Sam’s shower is boiling hot today.

He stands there for much longer than he needs to, letting the water scald his skin long after he’s already scrubbed himself clean. Sam watches the water slip down the drain, and he thinks of Natasha, and Steve, and he feels dizzy and weak. Eventually, he pulls himself out of the shower, finally turning the water off. 

Sam dries off, lotions his legs, stomach and arms. He pulls on his boxers, and that motion wipes out the last bit of his energy. Now all he can do is lean against the sink, his head hanging low. 

He tries very, very hard not to think anymore. He’s tired. So tired. 

Sam has no idea how long he stays like this. He just knows that Bucky eventually knocks on the door.

“You alright in there?” Bucky calls. “You decent?” 

Sam snorts and finally lifts his head. 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m decent.”

Bucky opens the door and slides into the bathroom. Sam looks at Bucky’s reflection in the mirror. He’s still shirtless, and the bathroom light gleams harshly against his metal arm. He’s traded the black basketball shorts for pajama pants that hang low on him. Sam glances at Bucky’s stomach for the briefest of moments before focusing on Bucky’s face again. 

“You didn’t answer that first question,” Bucky says. “You alright?”

Sam chuckles darkly. What does “alright” even mean now?” 

“I’m making it. I’m just . . . in here , thinking.”

“You do that too much,” Bucky says without missing a beat. “You do that _way_ too much.”

Sam chuckles again, the sound a little lighter this time. 

“You’re definitely right about _that_ ,” Sam mumbles under his breath. 

Bucky rolls his eyes and smiles. His eyes look far away, like he’s smiling at an old, faded memory. 

“I mean,” Bucky continues, “isn’t Captain America _supposed_ to be a little more impulsive?” 

_Captain America._ The phrase sends a chill down Sam’s spine. 

It’s been _months_ since Steve handed him that shield. Closer to a year, actually. Steve entrusted Sam with his mantle, his legacy. And months and months later, Sam feels further from being _Captain America_ than he ever has in his fucking life. He’s too weak, too slow, too _unsure._ Sam was never anything more than sidekick to Steve, and now he’s suddenly supposed to _become_ Steve. 

He’d thought he was right for this. It felt right at the time. 

“Welp,” Sam says. “Guess that’s another reason why I’m not _really_ Captain America, right?” 

Sam expects Bucky to laugh, or mutter some rude, or say _something_ , really. But he doesn’t.

Sam looks at Bucky’s reflection again. He’s giving Sam that same narrow-eyed look from before, only now he looks much less amused. The look makes Sam’s chest hurt. He feels _judged_ , like Bucky’s seeing something wrong with him. He looks at Bucky, and now _he’s_ feeling annoyed and agitated. 

“You _are_ Captain America,” Bucky says, his tone bordering on frustrated. “Steve said so.”

“It doesn’t matter what Steve said!” Sam snaps. 

The room goes quiet. Sam’s jaw twitches as he stares down into the sink’s drain. Bucky’s gone tense; Sam can feel the shift in energy as Bucky stands behind him. 

Sam sighs. He does not want to feel bad for snapping at James Buchanan Barnes of all fucking people. Bucky’s a big boy who does his fair share of getting on Sam’s nerves. 

But the guilt starts to creep up Sam’s neck, anyway. 

“I’m _sorry_ ,” Sam says, much more quietly this time. “I’m sorry, but . . . it doesn’t matter what Steve said. “It matters what _I_ say. _I_ have to be able to say I’m Captain America. You know what I mean?” 

Bucky doesn’t say anything. Sam hears Bucky move behind him, and he wonders if he should be bracing himself for a punch to the back of the head. 

Then Bucky scoffs. Sam looks up into the mirror and sees Bucky smirking at him.

“Then why don’t you just _say it?_ ”

Sam blinks at him, too stunned to even think of a comeback. Bucky shrugs at him. That smirk is still plastered on his face.

“Just open your mouth and say it, Cap. It’s not that hard.” 

Sam stares at Bucky’s face, watching as Bucky’s smirk fades into a soft, tiny but genuine smile. Bucky pushes himself off of the wall and moves closer to Sam’s back. Sam’s stomach twists into a knot as he feels the warmth radiating from Bucky’s body. 

“You can _be_ Captain America,” Bucky continues. “And not just because _Steve_ picked you. You can be Captain America because you can _actually fucking do it._ Okay? You just gotta _say_ it. And believe it.” 

Sam stares at Bucky’s face. He’s not joking or teasing Sam. He’s not trying to push Sam’s buttons. Bucky’s looking at Sam with one of the most sincere looks he has ever seen. 

Sam _does_ open his mouth; his lips barely part, and his breathing starts to go shallow. _Say it._ Just _say it_. 

But nothing comes out. 

Sam growls. He drops his head, squeezes his eyes shut.

The room is still quiet. Sam’s waiting on another word from Bucky.

Bucky doesn’t speak. Instead, he moves even closer and clasps Sam’s shoulder with his flesh hand. Bucky squeezes Sam’s shoulder, and the touch makes Sam’s bare skin burn. 

“You’ll be able to do it eventually,” Bucky says quietly. 

His hand falls from Sam’s shoulder. Before Sam can fully process what’s happened, Bucky’s left the bathroom. 

Sam looks up at himself and stares at his own reflection. His heart is beating a mile a minute. 


	2. Chapter 2

2.

It’s 1:53 AM. Sam is still awake. 

Sam blinks up at his ceiling. He’s been staring at the same spot for two hours now. Sam had thought that if he’d just laid still as possible and stared up, he’d eventually fall asleep. 

Sam doesn’t know _why_ he thought that: he’s tried that for three days straight now. But it’s not worked yet. 

Sam groans and tosses an arm over his eyes. He’s so fucking tired of being awake all the got damn time. 

Sam’s fully convinced he’s going to drop dead if he doesn’t go to sleep soon. He knows he can’t keep training on no sleep at all. He can already hear Bruce rambling about the way insomnia affects his heart and metabolism and mental and emotional state and _everything_ else. Hell, Sam’s got enough medical education of his own to know this isn’t sustainable. He’s stressing his body to its limits; he can’t take much more of this nonsense. 

Yet and still, he’s awake. 

There’s too much noise. 

No noise outside, though; Sam thinks they live in the most quiet neighborhood in D.C. It’s almost eerily quiet sometimes. 

It’s the noise in Sam’s _head_ that’s driving him up the damn well. 

Almost every time he sleeps, there’s more of it: screams, and crying, and laughing, and phones ringing, and the rush of wind, and _everything._

It’s everything, yet it’s nothing all the same, because there’s nothing _really_ there. There’s _never_ anything there. It’s just Sam, in his room, in his bed, his brain refusing to let him sleep. 

Sam gives up on the ceiling. He tosses himself onto his side, pressing his face into his arm. His skin feels hot. It’s about 68 degrees in Sam’s room, but his skin feels feverish. Elevated body temperature is a consequence of insomnia, too, Sam thinks. Everything in your body goes wrong when you can't sleep. 

**

It’s 4:03 AM. Sam’s staring at the ceiling again. 

This is _bullshit._

Why is Sam like this? Actually, no, that’s not a good question: Sam _knows_ why he’s like this. He knows what trauma is, what it does to your body, mind and soul. He spent years helping other veterans working through their own trauma. Sam has spent years becoming knowledgeable about post traumatic stress. 

Being knowledgeable isn’t helping all that much right now, though. 

What the fuck is Sam doing? He can’t do his new “job” like this. Why can’t he just get himself together? It’s been a very long time since Sam felt so unbalanced. So lost. So fucking _tired._

Sam kicks the covers off of his bed, pushing them down until they pool on the floor. It’s childish, but it’s also 4:04 AM, and Sam doesn’t care about maturity. He wants to go to _sleep_ , damn it, he wants—

He hears a noise. A _real_ noise. A sound so faint most people would miss it entirely. 

Sam bolts up, his body gone tense. He listens closely; he hears a quiet footfall right outside of his door. 

Okay. It’s either Bucky, stalking around outside of Sam’s door, or someone’s broken into their house to assassinate them. Both are entirely possible at this point. 

“Who’s there?” Sam calls. His voice sounds too loud and raspy to his own ears as it bounces off the walls of his room. 

Sam hears a small scoff. 

“Who else?” Bucky’s voice is rough, but the words come thick and slow as molasses. 

_Oh._ Sam sighs and falls flat on his back. 

“What do you _want_ , Barnes?”

Bucky laughs. He takes Sam’s gruff answer as a cue to come inside. Sam doesn’t object, even though he probably should. 

Bucky closes the door behind him. The warm streetlights pouring in through Sam’s window blinds shine onto Bucky, casting an orange glow onto his metal arm. Bucky leans against the door and crosses his arms, and Sam doesn’t have to see his face super clearly to know he’s wearing that _smirk._

“I _want_ to make sure you’re okay in here,” Bucky says. 

If Sam were sharper right now, he’d probably be a little embarrassed. Instead, all he can do is groan again and close his eyes.

“I must’ve been making a lot of noise.”

A beat passes before Bucky answers. Sam can hear him move against the door and pictures that he’s shrugging.

“Not that much,” Bucky says. “But I heard you move around a little.”

Of course he did, Sam thinks. Their rooms are no distance from each other. Sam can take two giant steps across the hall, and he’d end up standing in the middle of Bucky’s bedroom. Their new place isn’t much bigger than Sam’s old spot. 

They probably should’ve gotten something a little bigger. But, really, if Sam thinks about it, neither of them seemed to want a big place when they were looking.

“Sorry,” Sam says, tired and quiet. “Didn’t mean to disturb you.”

Sam hears Bucky move again. He can hear the covers on the floor rustle. He wonders if Bucky’s judging him for kicking them down. 

“You didn’t,” Bucky says. “I was awake, anyway.” 

Sam snorts. “Lack of sleep isn’t good for you, Barnes.” 

Bucky hums a sound that sounds close to a laugh. 

“You’re one to talk,” Bucky says. His tone sounds more fond than Sam expected it to. “You can’t do your _hours_ of training if you’re awake all night.”

Sam’s heart skips a beat. 

“Nope, I sure cannot,” Sam mutters. “We both need to be sleep.” 

“ _Yeah_ ,” Bucky drags out. There’s a second of silence, then: “You want your covers back?” 

It’s a genuine question; no teasing or anything. It’s nice. It makes Sam feel less silly. 

“Nah, I’m good.” Sam turns over onto his side. “See ya later.”

Bucky hums again, then opens the door. 

“Yeah, see ya.”

He closes the door so carefully it barely makes a sound. Sam thinks that’s nice, too. 

**

After a while, Sam opens his eyes again. He reaches over and drags his phone to his face. 

4:54 AM. Fuck. 

**

About twelve hours later, when he’s trying his best to make it through training, Sam yawns so loudly it makes Bucky stare. 

“You good?” Bucky asks. He looks Sam up-and-down, and Sam tries to ignore the way his face heats up. “You need a nap, Cap?” 

“Fuck off, Barnes.” Sam rolls his eyes. “Don’t be cute.”

Bucky laughs and tosses an arm over Sam’s shoulder. Sam’s so tired the weight of Bucky’s touch makes him feel like he’s going to fall over. 

“I’m just saying,” Bucky says, “you look kinda beat. You probably _should_ lie down.” 

And you know what? Sam _is_ woozy, and he feels bone-tired, and Bucky’s already looking at him funny. 

“Yeah--yeah you’re right,” Sam says. “I should go--I’ll go lay down.”

Bucky nods once. Sam expects Bucky to drop his arm from his shoulders and let him walk to his bedroom. But he doesn’t. Instead, Bucky grips him even tighter and steers him away, walking them to Sam’s room. 

“You know my legs still work, right?” Sam says as they go. 

“Do they?” Bucky quips. “Huh, I hadn’t noticed.” 

Bucky deposits Sam onto his bed, and Sam feels like a rock, he sinks so deeply into it. Sam somehow finds the energy to shift onto his right side. 

Bucky’s laughing at him again. 

“You just rest for a while, okay?” 

“Mmm, fuck off.” Sam barely gets the words out. 

A tiny part of Sam’s exhausted brain reminds him that wasn’t a nice thing to say. So, he finds himself lifting his head and looking over in Bucky’s direction.

“Thanks, by the way . . .”

Bucky makes a soft noise. Sam’s head flops back down on his pillow, and his eyes slide shut. Sam thinks Bucky’s already left. But then he feels Bucky squeeze his calf muscle so quickly and gently he almost thinks it’s his imagination. 

“No problem,” Bucky says, his voice low and warm. 

Then, Sam hears his door open and close again. _Now_ , he’s alone. 

**

_“Sam! Sam!”_

_What? Who’s there?_

_“Sam!_ _”_

_. . . Bucky? What’s going on? What’s wrong—_

_“Sam, get up! Get up,_ _now!_ _”_

_No . . . that’s_ _Steve,_ _calling for him. What’s going on? What’s happening?_

_“Come on! We gotta go!”_

_Nat? Where are we going?_

_“Sam!_ _Sam! Help me!_ _”_

_Bucky? What’s wrong? Where_ _are_ _you?_

_“_ _Help! Sam!”_

_Bucky?_

_Bucky . . . ?_

_Bucky—_

**

“Sam? _Sam!_ Wake up!”

Sam’s heart hurts: it’s beating too fast, and he’s breathing too fast, and it _hurts._ Someone’s on his bed, and Sam can feel himself kicking and thrashing and pushing and—

“ _Sam!_ Wake up for me, okay? I’m right here, I’m right here.”

There are hands on Sam’s arms, then one on his face and one on his chest. 

“It’s okay, it’s okay. Wake up, I got you.” 

Sam’s breathing slows. His heart finally slows. 

Okay . . . okay, he’s okay now. 

Sam opens his eyes to see Bucky peering down at him, still holding him carefully. 

“I’m good,” Sam says, his voice rough. “I’m good.” 

Bucky blinks at him. Sam realizes he’s trying to figure out if he should believe him. Then Bucky sighs, lets Sam go and moves back so that Sam can sit up. 

Sam sits up slowly, his arms shaking as he moves. 

“Let me guess,” Sam says, “you heard me moving around like crazy again.”

Bucky’s cheek twitches. 

“You were . . .” Bucky trails off then nods. “Yeah, I heard you moving a lot.”

Sam ducks his head, suddenly eager to _not_ look Bucky in his face.

“I gotta get my shit together,” Sam mumbles. 

“Sam . . . how long have you been having nightmares?” 

Bucky moves closer to Sam again. Sam refuses to lift his head. 

“A little while,” Sam says. “Just a few days.” 

Bucky frowns. “Is that why you haven’t been sleeping _at all_ lately?” 

Of course Bucky’s noticed. He’s probably heard Sam for way more nights than just last night. 

Sam nods. 

“Been having them every time I try to sleep lately,” he admits. 

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Bucky asks in an earnest tone. He adds, “You could’ve told me.” 

“It’s not . . .” Sam closes his eyes. He can feel stress building behind them. “I mean, I’m not trying to dump my junk on you, alright? It’s _my_ job to get myself together.” 

“Okay, but you don’t have to do that _by yourself_ ,” Bucky argues. “If you need help, you can ask for help. And trust me, you wouldn’t be ‘dumping’ anything on me that I couldn’t handle.”

Oh, Sam _knows_ that. Bucky’s handled more than most people can imagine. Who in the hell survives falling hundreds of feet from a train, being brainwashed, displaced in time, _un_ -brainwashed, literally erased from existence and _then_ losing their best friend? Sam is fully aware that Bucky is made of tough stuff. In all honesty, it makes Sam feel weaker sometimes. 

“We’ve all got our shit, Bucky,” Sam grumbles, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. “The world doesn’t stop just because I’m having a few nightmares.”

“Oh please, don’t give me that,” Bucky says hotly. “Yeah, sure, the world doesn’t stop, but you can’t do it any good like _this._ How the fuck do you think you can help ‘the world’ if you won’t even help _yourself_?”

Frustration overtakes Sam, and he finally looks up at Bucky, throwing his hands up in the air. 

“When _the fuck_ did you decide to become some wise self-help guru?!” 

“I don’t know!” Bucky retorts. “Probably around the time Shuri unscrambled my fucking brain! A lot of things can change when you have to have your brain rebuilt!” 

Sam groans as his hands fall and slap the bed. 

“See,” Sam says, “it’s stuff like _that_ that makes me see that my little nightmares aren’t—”

“ _Don’t_ you dare say it. That is _not_ why I said that. You _know_ it’s not.” 

Sam bites the inside of his cheek. His eyes dart back down to his comforter. He wants to argue, to push back against the sternness in Bucky’s tone. But, if he’s being honest, he really doesn’t know what he’s arguing against. 

“I just . . . I feel so _silly_ lately,” Sam confesses. “I feel just over my head. And I’ve been over my head before, but I was always to just pick myself up. But now, it’s . . .” 

“It’s _different_ ,” Bucky finishes. “This is a very different situation. Has been for a while now.” 

Sam forces himself to look Bucky in the eyes. 

“Sure has,” Sam says. “And I’m not sure what to do.”

Bucky nods. Then he smiles at him. 

“So, we figure it out. We work on it together.”

Bucky says it like it’s the most simple thing in the world. It makes Sam feel flustered. 

“ _We_ figure it out?” 

Bucky rolls his eyes, but smiles even wider. 

“Yes, _we_ figure it out.” Bucky shrugs. “I’m not letting you go through all of this _alone._ I’m here to have your back however I can. Even if that means tossing your dumb ass over my shoulder and dragging your ass to a counselor.” 

That pulls a laugh out of Sam. It’s a shaky sound, though. Sam feels nervous. God, why does Sam feel so _nervous_? 

“It’s cute that you think you can do that, Barnes,” Sam says. “But I appreciate the sentiment.” 

“It’s cute you think I _can’t_ do that, Wilson,” Bucky retorts. “But I’m glad you’re hearing me out.” 

Sam makes a show of rolling his eyes. Anything to make the strange fluttering in his stomach go away.

“Well, _thank you_ for looking out for me,” Sam says. “Even if you’re a little bit delusional.”

Bucky scoffs and stands up from the bed. 

“I’m gonna be fair and wait until you’re better-rested to prove you wrong. How’s that sound?” 

Sam’s stomach flutters again. He smirks at Bucky. 

“That sounds _great_ , Bucky. Looking forward to it.” 

**

Sam falls asleep that night. 

There’s noise. But it’s quieter now.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW:// violence
> 
> There's a fight scene in this one.

3.

“So, _this_ is where you two have been hiding . . .”

The voice freezes Sam and Bucky to the spot, stopping Sam mid-shield throw. It can’t be. It’s been _years._

But when they both turn around, Sam gets his confirmation: Sharon Carter, standing right at their backyard fence, watching them with a soft smile. 

“It’s kinda funny,” Sharon says. “All this time, I didn’t even realize you guys were living in D.C.”

Sam snorts. In the brief time he’d gotten to know Sharon, he’d become used to seeing her in pant suits with a badge and gun on her hip. It’s odd to see her here now in jeans and a plain black t-shirt, wearing a brown saddle bag and her hair pulled into a low ponytail. 

“Well, that just means you weren’t looking,” Sam says. “Because we all know _you_ can always find us if you’re really looking.”

Sharon lifts both eyebrows and gives a little nod. 

“I can’t argue with you there,” she says. She glances down at the fence. “May I . . . ?”

Sam looks over to Bucky. Bucky is _tense._ There’s no other word for it. He’s gone rigid all over. Sam can _see_ him gritting his teeth. But Bucky makes the same motion Sharon did: a quirk of his eyebrows and a small nod. 

Sam walks over and opens the fence’s door, stepping aside to let Sharon walk in. 

“It’s been a long while,” she says. “I’m sorry about that. I should’ve been checking in a lot more.” 

Sam hums as he walks past her and sits down on the stairs. Bucky immediately moves to stand beside him, leaning on the railing right next to Sam. Sharon’s eyes dart over to Bucky, but she doesn’t say anything, and she looks back to Sam with that same pleasant smile on her face. 

“It’s been a long while since I’ve seen _anybody_ ,” Sam says, “so, no hard feelings. But the fact that you’re here _now_ has me a little worried.” 

“I hate to be an omen . . . ” Sharon says, but her voice trails off in a telling way.

“ _But_?” Sam presses.

“ _But_ ,” Sharon says with a sigh, “I do have to admit that I’m here asking for a favor. It seems we need Captain America’s help.” 

For just a second, Sam forgets to breathe. The words—the _title_ —still sends a slight shiver down Sam’s spine. They’re only a little bit easier to hear, now. They’re no easier to _say,_ though. 

“Who’s ‘we’?” Bucky abruptly demands. “ ‘We’ as in SHIELD, or ‘we’ as in the government?” 

“Both, I suppose,” Sharon answers. “A few members of the House are in a pickle, and SHIELD is trying to help . . .”

“But SHIELD needs help with helping them,” Sam finishes. 

“Yep!” Sharon says, and she reaches down and pulls a tablet out of her bag. 

Sam feels Bucky shift as Sharon opens the tablet and starts scrolling. Sam glances up and sees that Bucky’s jaw still looks tight. It’s probably going to be sore after this. 

Sharon stops scrolling and hands the tablet over to Sam.

“We are dealing with a small, but apparently tech-savvy group of white nationalists,” Sharon says. “They’ve been spreading conspiracy theories online for awhile, but now they’ve taken to running a hacking and doxxing campaign against several representatives who they feel are ‘destroying’ the country.”

Sam scoffs as he looks at the tablet. There’s a picture of six men staring back at him, with one of them bigger than the others. Sam focuses on that one; a young man, probably early 30s, with a red face, dirty blond hair and dead blue eyes. The others don’t look much different. None of them are any other their mid-30s, with unassuming faces, blond or dark brown hair. And each have that same lifeless look in their eyes. 

“This campaign of theirs has been going on for months,” Sharon says. “And yesterday, a guy tried to run over one of the reps right down the street from the Capitol.”

Bucky leans over to read. Sam shifts towards him, allowing him more room to see.

“One of them is a cop?” Bucky says, pointing at the last picture.

“ _Former_ ,” Sharon corrects. “He was very recently ‘relieved of duty’ following some . . . _inflammatory_ Facebook posts.”

“Yeah, of course he was,” Sam mutters under his breath. He looks back up at Sharon and says, “Where are they based?”

“Richmond-area, actually,” Sharon says. “FBI’s gotten involved, but the process has been frustratingly _slow._ They did a raid on one of the guys’ houses, but turned up with nothing.” 

“And you want _me_ to pop in and speed things along?” Sam asks. 

Sharon nods. “You could put a much quicker end to this madness.” 

“And your government friends would be okay with me swooping in like that?” Sam challenges. “Because they’re the territorial type, if my memory serves me correctly.”

“If they’re smart, they’ll be grateful,” Sharon says bluntly. 

“ _That’s_ quite an assumption,” Bucky mumbles. 

Sharon chuckles quietly. “Yeah, it is.” She adds, “Look, Sam, if you agree to it, Maria and I will make sure you have everything you need. Make it as easy as possible.” 

“No Nick Fury?” Sam asks. “He didn’t feel like giving his input?” 

“Oh, no,” Sharon says with a laugh. “Nick has decided to ‘retire’. Again.” 

Sam snorts. “So, I take it he’ll hit me up in about four months?”

“Four months is probably generous,” Sharon quips. “I give him two.”

“Yeah, that sounds about right . . .” Sam says. 

He goes quiet for a moment, looking over the pictures again. This was going to happen _eventually_ , right? He’s always known he’d be getting back to work soon. And, as far as missions go, this one won’t be much trouble at all. 

But Sam can still feel Bucky standing tense next to him. So, he looks up at Sharon with caution in his eyes. 

“Let me sleep on it, and then get back to you?” Sam asks, handing the tablet back to her.

“Of course,” Sharon says. She takes the tablet, sliding it back into her bag. Then she pulls out a card and hands it to Sam. 

“Call this number tomorrow and let me know,” she says. 

“Will do. Talk to you soon.”

With that and a polite wave, Sharon is gone again, walking through the fence, soon disappearing from view. 

Sam waits for a few long moments. Then he turns to Bucky. Bucky stands next to him with his arms crossed.

“You don’t like it,” Sam says.

Bucky shrugs. “Sounds easy enough. It’s not too far, looks like they’ve got a lot of intel . . .”

“But you still don’t like it,” Sam concludes. 

Bucky sighs. “I don’t like them just _showing up_ and calling on you like this. Guess I’m just paranoid.”

“That’s understandable,” Sam says. “And appreciated.”

Bucky smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Bucky has a forlorn look in his eyes. It makes Sam feel unsettled. Sam stands up and leans onto the railing, unintentionally ending up in Bucky’s space. Bucky doesn’t move, though. 

“How about this,” Sam starts. “I knock this mission out as a show of peace or whatever, and then put as much distance between us and SHIELD as possible. That work?” 

Bucky has skepticism etched all over his face, but Sam can tell he’s starting to relax, at least a little bit. 

“Don’t know how successful we’ll be at that,” Bucky says, “but we can try.” 

Sam chuckles. That is as positive of a response as Bucky’s going to give him. 

“Good enough for me,” Sam says. He looks down at Sharon’s card. “Guess I better call her in a few. Let her know I’m in.”

Bucky blinks, then narrows his eyes at Sam.

“No, _we’re_ in. You’re not going alone.”

“I’m not?” Sam asks, unable to find other words.

Bucky snorts. “Of course not. Why do you think you would be?” 

Because Sam’s always figured he would _have_ to do it all alone; he’s internalized it for several months now. It’s how Sam’s life always been, really. Eventually, through one way or another, Sam’s always ended up alone.

Until now, apparently.

“I don’t know,” Sam says. “I just thought I would be.”

“Well, you’re not,” Bucky says. “You’re stuck with me, now. And we’re doing this together because someone needs to watch your back.” 

Sam’s . . . stunned. And, if he’s really being honest, kind of . . . touched. 

“Thank you. Really.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and smiles. 

“Nothing to thank me for, Cap.”

**

Sam’s suit fits.

Pepper made it, technically speaking. She pulled together remnants of Tony’s old designs and made all the necessary adjustments for Sam. It’s designed differently than Steve’s was. The blue is a little deeper, there’s more silver in the torso, and the back is customized to fit his wigs. Sam won’t need the wigs tomorrow. But, he’ll need them sooner or later. 

He probably shouldn’t be surprised it fits. It was _made_ for him. But still. 

Sam’s staring at himself in the mirror, letting his eyes wander up and down his own reflection, when Bucky appears behind him.

“It looks good,” Bucky says, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Looks right.” 

There’s a faint pain in the pit of Sam’s stomach. He tries to ignore it. 

**

They arrive in Richmond in the dead of night. 

Sharon sent Sam approximate coordinates and an IP address that led him and Bucky to an unassuming two-story house in a quiet suburb. 

Sam and Bucky lurk in the shadows behind the home, with Sam using his goggles to look inside. All their targets are inside, milling about upstairs. 

“You’d think they’d have better things to do than _this_ ,” Bucky mumbles. 

“Never underestimate the _allure_ of bigotry,” Sam says, the sarcastic words tasting bitter on his tongue. He adds, “We just need to go in, kick their asses a little, and drag them out of there. Sound like a plan?”

Sam can practically hear the smirk on Bucky’s face. 

“Sounds like a plan,” Bucky says. “So, do we wanna just barge in and say ‘hello,’ or what?”

Sam takes a moment to think it over. He looks at the back of the house, his eyes darting from the backdoor to the second-story windows and all over again. They’ll have the element of surprise well enough, but he really doesn’t want to run the risk of these jackasses having any sort of advantage over them. 

As Sam ponders, his eyes fall on something that helps him make up his mind. 

“Oh, look,” Sam says, “a fuse box!”

Bucky’s eyes jump over, landing right on the box. 

“ _Oh._ So, am I tearing it up with my hand?” Bucky asks. “Or do you wanna give the shield a throw?”

There’s a small voice in the back of Sam’s head that asks if they should be _this_ excited to bust men and kick these men’s asses. That voice is no fun, so Sam’s choosing to ignore it. 

“ _Hmm_. You know what? Let me give the shield a chance. Good practice, you know?”

Bucky nods. “I wholeheartedly agree.” 

Sam grins. 

He rears back and throws the shield, aiming directly for the fusebox on the back of the house. The shield tears throw the box, and the mangled box spews sparks and fizzles. The house goes totally dark. 

“ _What the fuck was that?!”_

_“What the hell happened?!”_

_“Did you pay your light bill?!”_

Ah, the wonderful sounds of confused bad guys. 

Sam and Bucky rush to the house. Sam snatches the shield out of the fuse box and reattaches it to his wrist. Then they burst through the backdoor. 

They immediately spread out: Sam ducks behind the kitchen’s island while Bucky hops over the couch. A few seconds later, several men come bounding down the stairs, tripping and stumbling as they go.

“Who’s there?!” One man bellows. 

Sam hears the cock of a gun, and rolls his eyes. These guys are smart enough to create and sustain an entire online hacking and doxxing campaign against members of the House of Representatives, but are dumb enough to run around a dark house with loaded guns. 

But it’s whatever. Sam just needs a few of them to walk his way. 

“I said who _the fuck_ is there?!” One of the men shouts. 

The man walks into the kitchen. Sam can hear a couple of men following him. 

_Come on_ , Sam thinks, _just a few feet to your right._

The group takes a few more steps. And then, they’re walking around the island, approaching Sam.

Right where Sam needs them. 

One sweeping kick, and the first man falls hard onto the floor. Sam grabs and pockets his gun, and before the second man can even point in the right direction, Sam hits him in both of his knees and his lower stomach, making him crumble to the ground. Sam jumps up from the floor, and, just as the third man is pointing the gun at his face, Sam grabs his arm and twists it to the side, leaving the gun pointing at the ground at a crooked, awkward angle. 

“Get off me!” the man yells. “Get the fuck off me, you fucking cuck!” 

Sam stares at him blankly. 

“Do you _seriously_ think that’ll convince me to let you go?” 

“You’re only here because _they_ sent you,” he says in a huff. “You’re their good little Black puppet, aren’t you? Some fucking SJW, PC puppet!!”

Sam hums. “You know what? You’ve convinced me. I’ll let you go.”

The man stops struggling.

“. . . Really?” 

Sam punches him in the face, knocking him out. He lets go of the man’s arm, letting him fall to the ground.

“ _Really._ ”

Sam looks at the heap of men on the floor around him. If he just took out three, that means Bucky has—

Sam hears two gunshots and whips around. His heart starts pounding in his chest.

“ _Bucky?!_ ”

A millisecond later, Sam hears a scream, and a man’s body comes _flying_ towards him.

“Shit!” 

Sam jumps out of the way. The man’s body sails past him, crashes into the oven and falls to the floor, landing on top of one of the men Sam took down.

Sam looks up to see Bucky standing there, two unconscious men at his feet. Even in the darkness of the house, Sam can see the sheepish expression Bucky’s face.

“My bad,” Bucky says.

Sam laughs, beyond relieved.

“You good?” Sam asks. 

Bucky nods. “Yeah, I’m good. You?”

“I’m good.”

Bucky walks into the kitchen and drapes his arm onto Sam. 

“So, we tie them up and head out?”

“Guess so.” 

Sam looks down at the men on the kitchen floor again. He tilts his head to get a better look at the man Bucky flung. 

“Hey, I think you threw the main guy over here.”

Bucky leans over and peers down. Then he snorts.

“Well, whadda know?” Bucky says. “He was a wimp.” 

Sam looks over. He can make out the crooked grin on his face.

“They always are.”

**

They get home only a few hours later. 

Sam takes a long, hot shower. He feels tired: super soldier, he is _not._ Sam lets the hot water run down his back, sighing as it soothes his muscles. 

Eventually, Sam trudges out of the bathroom and into his room. He moisturizes, pulls on his pajama pants and lays out on his bed. A couple of minutes after, he hears a soft knock at the door.

“You decent?” Bucky asks.

Sam smiles and props himself up on his elbows.

“What if I said ‘no’?” 

Sam can barely hear Bucky’s quiet laugh. 

“Then I’ll hang out here. Respect your modesty, and all that . . .”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Modesty my _ass_. Come in.”

Bucky opens the door and steps inside, closing the door behind him. 

“How are you feeling?” Bucky asks. “About . . . all _this_?”

Sam hesitates. He thinks of the look on Sharon’s face when she first showed up and the tone of her voice on the word “omen.”

“I’m . . . not sure. What about you? Still feeling suspicious?”

“Always am,” Bucky says. 

Sam nods. He sits up further and looks Bucky in the eye. 

“You know,” he says, “you really _don’t_ have to do these jobs with me. Not if you don’t want to.”

“I know I don’t,” Bucky says. “But I’ll always want to.”

Maybe Sam’s tiredness is messing with him, because he looks at Bucky and his stomach drops.

“Thank you.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “One day, you’ll figure out you don’t have to _thank_ me so much.”

Sam takes in Bucky’s face, then his chest, then his arms. Sam’s stomach is still at the bottom of his body, and he starts to feel dizzy with an emotion he can’t name. 

“No, I won’t. So, you might as well get used to it, Bucky.”

“ _Okay_ ,” Bucky says, his tone playful. “I guess I’ll try.”

Bucky steps back out of Sam’s door, closing the door behind him. 

Sam lies back down on the bed. He tries (and fails) to sort through all the feelings rushing through his chest. 

**

When Sam’s deep in sleep, his mind far, far away from the real world, he sees Bucky’s smirk, and an impossibly quiet thought passes through his mind. 

_I want Bucky._

Sam’s eyes fly open. He lies in bed, suddenly wide awake. He doesn’t fall asleep again.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW:// old white men being passive aggressive

4.

Sam needs to focus. 

Sam is struggling to get through training today; he thinks he’s been hitting the punching bag for 20 minutes straight now. His hands, arms and back are beginning to ache, and he thinks he’s legs are going to turn into jelly soon, but his mind is far too preoccupied for him to notice. 

It’s just . . . it’s that _thought._ The one that’s been popping up in his mind, startling him throughout the day.

_I want Bucky._

Sam can’t get the thought out of his mind. What does it even _mean_? It _can’t_ mean what it seems to mean. Because otherwise, Sam’s brain has decided that it’s not enough to have Bucky as a close friend and partner, but instead Sam has to have a—

 _Don’t_ say it. Sam refuses to say it. He’s just starting to get his shit together in terms of the whole _Captain America_ thing. The last thing he needs is to have a . . . _crush_ on Bucky gotdamn Barnes. Sam can’t deal with this right now, he really can’t—

“Sam?”

Sam’s heart fully stops, and he feels like he’s going to jump out of his skin. He turns around to see Bucky standing behind him, his eyes wide, his hands up in surrender. 

“Didn’t mean to scare you!” Bucky says. “You good?”

No, because his heart went from being frozen to beating a thousand miles per second. But Sam nods. 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m good.”

Sam forces himself to look Bucky in the face (because that is a thing he needs to be able to do without feeling like he’s going to pass out.) His whole mood changes when he sees the slight frown on Bucky’s face and the envelope in his hand.

“What’s up?” Sam asks. “The look on your face is making me nervous.”

Bucky waves the envelope. “You’ve been _summoned._ ”

“ _Summoned_?” Sam takes the envelope from Bucky’s hand.

Bucky nods, still frowning. “Well, I guess _invited_ is a better word. By the Department of Homeland Security.”

Sam pulls the letter out and reads:

_To Samuel Thomas Wilson:_

_The Department of Homeland Security would like to express its gratitude for your assistance in protecting the esteemed members of the United States House of Representatives. Your swift, efficient action has helped ensure the safety of our congressmen and congresswomen. The incident is finally being brought to a peaceful resolution._

_The department would like to meet with you to discuss this incident as well as a working professional relationship with you. We believe a partnership between you and the Department of Homeland Security would ultimately be to the benefit of you, the department and the country._

_Please respond using the contact information provided if you would like to set up an appointment to meet with us._

_Sincerely,_

_Walter Banks_

_Executive Secretary, Department of Homeland Security_

Sam grimaces at the letter. Just reading that made him feel a little icky. 

“Well, ain’t that something.”

“I _knew_ they’d try something like this,” Bucky says sourly. 

“Told you your paranoia was understandable,” Sam says. “I wonder if Sharon knows anything about this.”

Bucky opens his mouth, but before he can say something, Sam’s phone rings. Sam digs his phone out of his pocket. He scoffs when he sees who’s calling. 

“Speak of the devil,” he grumbles. 

He holds the phone up so that Bucky sees the screen. 

“Of course,” Bucky mutters.

Sam snorts and answers the phone. 

“Hey, Sharon.”

“Hey, Sam! Did you happen to get a _letter_ from Homeland Security today?”

The annoyance in Sharon’s voice is very evident. 

“She knows,” Sam mouths at Bucky. 

Bucky rolls his eyes so hard Sam halfway expects them to pop out of his head. Sam bites back a laugh. Bucky’s disdain for the government is one of Sam’s favorite things about him.

_I want Bucky._

Fuck. _Stop that._ Focus. Sharon’s on the phone about a letter from fucking Homeland Security. That’s a bit important, right now. 

“Did you get one, too?” Sam asks Sharon. 

“No, Maria and I got a call from Secretary Banks’s assistant,” Sharon says, “because apparently the department had some questions.”

“All about me?” 

Sam thinks he should really be used to this type of stuff, by now. He’s been in government’s crosshairs for more than a decade, when he was young and dumb enough to sign up for the Air Force. 

“Mostly about you,” Sharon answers. “And of course, there were questions about SHIELD’s current operations since we’ve all come back from the _dead_ and all that. Homeland Security is just really _curious_ about us.” 

“Yeah, I bet they are.” Sam looks down at the letter again. “Did you get you any idea of what they want to talk to _me_ about?” 

“No,” Sharon says, “but I imagine they think working with the new Captain America will be a good look for them. You know, considering the old one was an international fugitive by the end of his tenure.” 

Sam laughs, more at Sharon’s teasing tone than the memory her words conjure. Bucky narrows his eyes at Sam, and Sam tries to stay _focused_ and not get distracted or let that damn _thought cross his mind again._

“You know, I was _also_ an international fugitive, right?” Sam says. “Right alongside him? Does no one remember Ross throwing my ass in the Raft?” 

“Oh, trust me, I think they remember,” Sharon says. “At least, the few people left over from the last administration remember. But bygones, right?”

“I guess we’ll see about that,” Sam says with a sigh. 

“You’ll tell me what happens?” 

There’s a note of eagerness in Sharon’s voice that tickles Sam. 

“I definitely will. Talk to you soon.” 

“See ya.”

Sam hangs up and slides his phone back into his pocket. Bucky crosses his arm and raises an eyebrow at Sam.

“So, we taking a trip to the Capitol?”

 _We._ It’s always _we_ with Bucky. _I want—_

“You sure you wanna deal with whatever _this_ is with me?” Sam asks. 

He already knows the answer. But he can’t help but ask. 

“Of course,” Bucky says with a small, but wicked smile. Then the corners of his mouth turn downward. “Unless you don’t _want_ me to . . .”

“No, I want you!”

The words leap out before Sam can really consider them. Bucky’s eyes widen just a little, and Sam’s stomach drops all the way down to his ass because dear God, he did _not_ mean to say that aloud. 

But Bucky just smiles at him.

“Cool,” Bucky says. “I’ll try not to embarrass you.”

Sam laughs, trying his hardest not to sound so relieved. Bucky didn’t hear him. Not really. 

**

Walking inside the Capitol is something of a blur. 

Sam and Bucky walk close together as they’re ushered through the halls, surrounded by security, swiftly passing curious journalists, interns and straggling staff members. Sam should be used to this, too: so much noise, so many people moving around him, so many people _looking_ at him. Sam’s nerves are shot, though, and he’s already regretting his decision to come here. 

As they’re herded around a tight corner towards a conference room, Bucky puts a hand on the small of Sam’s back, his fingers pressing firmly. Bucky tilts his head towards Sam’s ear, and Sam almost forgets how to walk. It’s all too much of a shock to his system. 

“You okay?” Bucky asks quietly.

Sam glances over at Bucky, but he gets distracted by the sight of two older white men in dark suits _glaring_ at them, disgust written all over them. Their faces are so twisted and scrunched that Sam can hear his mother’s voice, faintly saying, _Fix your face before it gets stuck that way._

"Don't know yet . . . " Sam mutters. 

Bucky frowns, and his eyes dance up and down Sam's face. Bucky turns his head to follow Sam's line of sight and sees the frowning men. Sam doesn't know what kind of face Bucky makes, but those men turn pale, and their eyes go wide. 

They finally come to a stop outside of a small conference room. A beautiful, dark-skinned Black woman with long, coily hair and bright red lipstick stands near the door, going back forth with security. She does a double take when she sees Sam. She smiles and seems to decide to completely ignore security in favor of reaching out her hand to Sam.

“Mr. Wilson! I’m Jania West,” she says. “I’m one of the reps you’ve rescued from our racist hacker friends.”

Sam smiles and shakes her hand. At the same time Sam grasps her hand, Bucky’s hand falls from Sam’s back. The loss of the touch is distracting. 

_Focus._

“Nice to meet you, Congresswoman West,” Sam says, as polite and professional as possible. “I’m glad we could help.” 

Jania giggles and gives Sam’s hand a quick squeeze before letting it go. 

“Just call me Jania,” she says. “And I can’t tell how grateful I am that this nightmare is over. It’s nice to feel like someone actually _cared._ ” 

Sam takes a good look at Jania. He can imagine the amount of nonsense she puts up with just because she dared to be who she is and actually do her job. 

“Ah, Mr. Wilson!”

Sam, Bucky and Jania all turn towards the voice. Executive Secretary Walter Banks stands there with a smile, his gray suit meticulously tailored and his salt-n’-pepper hair perfectly coiffed. The sight of him makes Sam feel he’s made a terrible mistake. 

“Secretary Banks,” Sam greets. “Nice to meet you.”

Secretary Banks walks up to Sam, reaches past Jania and shakes his hand. His grip falls on the side of a tad bit too enthusiastic, and Sam tries to fight the instinct to snatch his hand back. 

Secretary Banks releases Sam’s hand and nods towards the conference room.

“Why don’t we go inside and talk for a bit?”

Sam watches Secretary Bank’s eyes flit over to Bucky. Nervousness flashes across Secretary Banks’s face; it’s only there for a fraction of a second, but Sam sees it all the same. Jania pulls a face, too, cutting her eyes at the back of Secretary Banks’s head. That only lasts for a second, as well. 

Sam turns around, fully facing Bucky. Bucky flashes a smile, but it’s a menacing look directed solely at Secretary Banks. 

“I can wait out here,” Bucky says. 

Sam bites the inside of his cheek and nods. _Stop enjoying that_ , he chides himself. 

Sam turns back to Jania and nods. “It was nice to meet you.”

Jania smiles, wide and pleasant. “You, too.”

Jania briskly walks away, nodding at Bucky as she goes. Sam follows Banks into the conference room. He glances over his shoulder to see security guards—hesitantly—saying something to Bucky. Bucky shoots Sam a look and his mouth quirks upwards. 

The door closes between them. Bucky’s face is replaced by the sight of dark mahogany. 

“Please have a seat,” Secretary Banks says. 

Sam sits lightly on the edge of the chair, his back straight. Secretary Banks sits across from him, flanked by two other men with identical suits, hair and unnaturally placid smiles. 

“This is Assistant Secretary Jon Maxwell and Deputy Charles Johnson,” Secretary Banks says, nodding to the two men.

Sam nods to be polite, but he doesn’t even look in their direction. Secretary Banks clears his throat and leans forward, putting his elbows on the table.

“We’d like to thank you again for helping us neutralize the ongoing issue with several of our representatives,” Secretary Banks says. “SHIELD has always been an extremely valuable asset to the nation’s security. As has Captain America.”

Secretary Banks has already said two things Sam could argue with. _HYDRA, the Raft, two years on the fucking road._ Yeah, sure, it’s been almost six years at this point, but what’s that mean for Sam, who was technically “dead” for the majority of that time? 

But Sam doesn’t want to argue. Not yet, anyway. So, he nods again.

“Of course.”

Secretary Banks continues, “I know that our relationship with your predecessor, Mr. Steve Rogers, was quite . . . _strained_. Largely due to a _severe_ breach of our security and an inappropriate response on our part.”

Sam hums affirmatively. He can’t verbalize how much of an understatement _that_ is. 

“We would really like to repair that relationship,” Secretary Banks says, “and figure out a way for us all to work together. We’d like to offer our resources in exchange for your assistance on these types of threats. It’d be something of a partnership.”

Sam keeps his face as neutral as possible as he mulls over Secretary Banks’s words. 

“The wording of that reminds me a little of the Accords,” Sam says. 

Secretary Banks’s face twitches, a tiny movement most would’ve missed. 

“This wouldn’t be like that,” Secretary Banks says. “I can admit the Accords were very well-intentioned, but a bit overreaching and _clearly_ had some unforeseen consequences. You wouldn’t be under our control, or anything of that sort.” 

“But we would be _on-call_ for you,” Sam says. “If we take your resources, we’d essentially have to pay for it by going on missions for you.”

Secretary Banks shifts in his seat. 

“It wouldn't be as _transactional_ as it sounds,” Secretary Banks says, “but that’s an accurate synopsis of the idea.” 

_Good little Black puppet_ : Sam tries not to openly growl at the memory. But maybe that asshole wasn’t too far off. 

“With all due respect, I fail to see exactly how my partner and I would benefit from this arrangement,” Sam says. “Especially considering how problematic this type of partnership has been in the recent past.”

Secretary Banks shifts again, more visibly uncomfortable this time. 

“Well, to be honest, Mr. Wilson, I feel like you’d need _us_ like we need you.”

Sam’s face goes hot, and his stomach drops. 

“Why’s that?” 

His voice has hardened, and Sam knows everyone in the room can see the way his mood has shifted. Secretary Banks’s fingers twitch.

“What I mean is,” Secretary Banks stammers. His eyes dart to the table as if they need a break from Sam’s face. “Well—I’m just gonna say this. Although Mr. Rogers obviously made a smart and forward-thinking choice when he chose you as his successor, you have to imagine that it’s not a very _popular_ choice.”

Sam stares at Secretary Banks. So, _this_ is the route they want to take. Okay.

“Not popular with _who_?” Sam demands. Because, if they’re gonna bring it up, Sam might as well make them spell it out for him.

Secretary Banks starts blinking really fast. Maxwell and Johnson glance at each other. 

“Ah, not popular with certain groups within our nation’s population,” Secretary Banks says. “Some people have come to associate Captain America with a certain _image_ , and you have a _very_ different image than that.” 

Sam tilts his head. “Different how?” 

Secretary Banks goes to blinking again. “Well, you know, _physically_ different, and perhaps ideological differences.” 

Sam lets out a quiet scoff. “If you think there are ideological differences between Steve and I, you didn’t know him very well.”

Secretary Banks goes still at that. Maxwell makes a small coughing sound, and Johnson starts to drum his fingers against the table. Sam glances at all of them and fights the urge to roll his eyes. Of course, _they’re_ the ones who are uncomfortable, as if this man didn’t just sit here and give Sam every reason to distrust them. 

“Tell me, Secretary Banks,” Sam says. “What exactly would you do to protect us from the disapproval of ‘certain groups’? Would you be stationing officers outside of our house? Putting surveillance _inside_ of it? Because I’m not sure we’d be comfortable with those types of measures.” 

“No, no, not that!” Secretary Banks stumbles over his words. He clears his throat again and smiles. “I mean—honestly, having our backing would assure a lot of people that you’re on our side.”

“On your side,” Sam echoes. “As opposed to what? Being a threat?” 

A threat to be neutralized, destroyed, buried. A target. Like he’s been for a while now. 

“I suppose,” Secretary Banks answers. “Which, of course, is an illogical conclusion for people to come to and not how _we_ see you.”

That’s a fucking lie if Sam’s ever heard one. 

Sam sighs. He’s more than over this now. 

“With all due respect,” Sam says, “anyone who views me as a threat because I’m Black isn't likely to be swayed by me becoming a mascot for the government. I can’t help but think that would be a waste of your time and resources, as well as a disservice to myself.”

Secretary Banks’s cheeks turn the faintest shade of red. 

“Furthermore,” Sam continues, “when I took on the mantle of ‘Captain America,’ I was already aware of the _dangers_ associated with being who am I and taking on this role. Frankly, they’re the same dangers I’ve dealt with my entire life, just a little _heightened_. There isn’t a version of myself that will make me safer in this role. I’ve accepted that already. I don’t see how anything can change that. I don’t see how _this_ would change that.”

“Don’t you think you’d be taking a great risk by rejecting our help?” Secretary Banks asks. 

“I’m always taking a ‘great risk,’” Sam says. “I took a great risk by coming _here_ in the first place. I guess I’ll just have to continue taking risks.”

The red on Secretary Banks’s face deepens slightly. His shoulders and jaw go rigid. The fake pleasantness is finally gone. 

“You sure about this, Mr. Wilson?” 

Sam stands up from the table. This meeting is over for him. The three men watch him stand, trepidation and unease on all of their faces. 

“I’m positive.”

**

“Those fucking pieces of shit!”

They’ve been home for almost two hours, and Bucky is still mad. He keeps pacing around their house, muttering and cursing aloud. 

It’d be funny if Sam weren’t so damn tired. 

Sam’s been stretched out on the couch since they got home. He’s spent the past two hours laying there, watching Bucky move about the living room and kitchen like an isolated tornado. In the midst of his anger, Bucky somehow managed to take Sam’s shoes off of his feet and bring him a cold beer. Jarringly nice gestures to make while quietly raging. 

“Still can’t fucking believe this shit,” Bucky mutters.

Sam closes his eyes, draping his arm over them.

“Is the job even _worth_ this type of shit?” Sam asks, mostly to himself. “Is this some type of sign that I should just sit my ass down somewhere?”

“Hey!” 

Bucky’s voice is suddenly much closer. Sam opens his eyes to Bucky sitting on the arm of the couch, right next to Sam’s feet. Bucky gives him an intense stare, and the proverbial butterflies start fluttering around in Sam’s stomach. 

“You’re Captain America, and those racist fucks don’t get to take that away from you just because they’re a bunch of cowards,” Bucky says. “Okay? Fuck them!” 

A dazed laugh escapes Sam. That’s basically what he needs to hear.

“You know what?” Sam says. “You’re right. Fuck ‘em.”

Bucky grins, and that look of childlike mischief spreads across his face. 

“That’s the spirit, sweetheart! Those fucking suits don’t know what’s about to hit them.” 

Bucky chuckles devilishly at his own threatening words. The roguish sound floods Sam’s senses, dragging him back to hours earlier. He remembers that _look_ those two men gave them when Bucky put his hand on Sam’s back, the way those two men twisted their noses up only to go pale at the sight of Bucky’s glare. 

Sam props himself up on his elbows so he can get a better look at Bucky. He takes in Bucky’s crooked smile, his loosened tie, and how relaxed he looks as he leans against the bedroom wall. Sam looks at Bucky’s face, and there’s that damn _thought_ again, floating around in his head. _I want Bucky._

Except . . . Sam’s spent so much trying to convince himself to _not_ want Bucky that hadn’t occurred to him that Bucky might not even _approve_ of that type of thing. Did Bucky realize _why_ those men gave them that look? 

“Sam?” 

Sam blinks. He didn’t realize he’d slipped away. Bucky’s frowning at him, concern starting to show on his face.

“You good?” Bucky asks. “Because I can hear you thinking real hard over there.”

Sam snorts, but his stomach drops. How honest should he be right now? Bucky certainly doesn’t _seem_ like a homophobe, but he _was_ born in 1917 to a very religious mother, so there’s no telling how this could go.

“ _Sam?_ ” Bucky calls again. “Are you okay?”

Sam sits up, drawing his knees closer to his chest. 

“I’m just . . .” Sam bites the inside of his cheek. He should be choosing his next words very carefully. 

“I was just thinking about today,” Sam finally says. “Thinking about the suits again. How they really don’t like us . . .”

“Well, they’re a bunch of old racist assholes,” Bucky grumbles, “so who gives a fuck what they like?” 

The gruffness draws a shaky laugh from Sam. He could--and maybe should--end the conversation here. But he feels an urge to press forward. 

“They’re bothered by both of us, though. Us, together.” 

Bucky shrugs. “I mean, I am like a walking Red Scare. And they can’t really do anything about me without implicating themselves in a _lot_ of shit, so . . .”

“Buck,” Sam says. “They’re a bunch of _homophobes,_ too. They thought we were _together._ In a relationship.”

Bucky blinks, and his eyebrows climb up to his hairline. 

“Oh. _That’s_ what you’re getting at.”

Sam nods slowly, trying to ignore the anxiety twisting around in his chest. 

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I figured that out. There’s no surprise there.” 

“Does that bother you?” Sam asks. “Do you care at all . . . ?”

Bucky smirks. “I mean, you _are_ a little outta my league, but I’m not bothered if you aren’t.” 

“Well, I’m flattered, Buck,” Sam says flatly. “Thanks.”

Bucky chuckles lowly. Sam watches Bucky rub at his stubble, and Sam could really end the conversation here. It’s _fine_ , he’s got the answer he was hoping for. He doesn’t have to push it any further.

But . . . there’s this annoying little voice in the back of Sam’s head. 

_Tell him. He should know._

“Buck. You should know . . .”

Bucky sits up straighter at the change in Sam’s tone. 

“Yeah . . . ?” 

Sam sighs. Okay, Wilson, get it over with. 

“ . . . I’m gay. I . . . I feel like you should know that. I’m gay.” 

Bucky blinks at Sam and frowns. Sam feels like he can’t breathe. 

“Did Steve know?” Bucky asks. His voice is quiet. 

“No.” Sam feels a pang in his chest. “No, I never told him.” 

Bucky takes a moment. It feels terribly, horribly long. But then he smiles.

“You wouldn’t have lost him over it,” Bucky says. “You’re not gonna lose _me_ over it, either.” 

Sam feels so relieved he could cry. 

“Good to know, Barnes,” Sam says instead. “Guess I have to figure out another way to get rid of you.”

Bucky smirks again.

“Yep. You sure will.”

**

_You’re not gonna lose me over it._

It’s been hours, and the conversation has replayed in Sam’s head a thousand times. _You’re not gonna lose me over it,_ because Bucky could look at Sam and see _that_ was his concern. Has Sam _always_ been that obvious? 

Sam tosses a pillow over his head. He’s supposed to be asleep, but his thoughts won’t settle. It’s the day, it’s that conversation, it’s that same thought circling round and round in his head again. 

Sam presses his pillow against his face harder. Just because he won’t _lose_ Bucky doesn’t mean he can _have_ him. It doesn’t mean Bucky _wants him._

Sam needs to remember that.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 🥰🥰🥰

5.

This is Sam’s fault. 

Sam sighs pathetically as he sits on the edge of his bed. He decides to twist his neck to check himself out, grimacing as he sees the ugly, dark purple bruises decorating his left pec and shoulder. The bruises on both sets of knuckles aren’t pretty either, but at least his hands don’t _hurt._ His shoulder feels like he got run over by a truck.

Which is ironic, considering he got this injury by narrowly _avoiding_ being run over by a truck. 

He should’ve been much more careful than he was. Looking back, Sam was being super reckless by jumping onto the side of that speeding 18-wheeler. But it was either jump onto the side and pull the driver out of the window, or let the man plow his truck into the abortion clinic full of innocent women. Sam maintains he made the best decision in the moment.

Doesn’t mean his shoulder doesn’t hurt like hell, though. 

It also didn’t stop Bucky from _fussing_ at Sam. Bucky had fussed at Sam so much Sam was starting to feel like he was talking to his mother. On the way home, Bucky had watched Sam like a hawk, checking for any sign of injury. 

And Sam, dumb as he is, had actually tried to pretend he wasn’t hurt. As if he could have ever fooled Bucky. 

Sam wraps his around his torso. He’s uncomfortable; Bucky’s got Sam sitting here shirtless while he makes an ice pack. Sam feels _exposed._ Which is silly, because he and Bucky have been shirtless in front of each more times than he can count. Hell, Sam and Steve were _naked_ in front of each other on more than a few occasions. It’s one of those things Sam should be more than used to at this point.

But still. It’s _Bucky_ , touching him, muttering about how ridiculous he is, taking care of him. It’s a lot. 

Sam can’t get over Bucky.

This isn’t . . . it isn’t like other _crushes_ he’s had. 

Crushes usually don’t last very long for Sam. Eventually, they fizzle out, settling into a platonic appreciation or a disgruntled disdain that leaves him wondering how he ever found that person attractive in the first place. He’d thought that would happen with Bucky; Sam had he’d eventually see Bucky as a friend at most and move on with his life.

That hasn’t happened with Bucky. If anything, Sam’s feelings have only gotten more intense. The eagerness to see him, the anxiety his touch causes, the eerie peace he feels when he hears his laugh. It’s getting hard to _be_ around Bucky. How can Sam be around Bucky, when he’s desperately trying to balance _I want you, come_ _here,_ _stay with me_ with being his friend? 

How can Sam be around Bucky when he’s gone and fallen in love with him? What the hell is he supposed to do now? 

Sam’s spent the last few months trying to get his shit together. But what does that even mean in the face of _this_? 

Sam squeezes his torso, making his shoulder hurt just a little. He wants Bucky. He _always_ wants Bucky. Bucky is only three minutes down the hall. But still. 

Yikes. 

**

Bucky steps into the room, holding a big pack of ice and wearing a skeptical look on his face.

“Have you actually been sitting still?” Bucky asks. “Because I feel like you haven’t.” 

Sam’s heart drops into his stomach. He forces himself to smile, be as normal as possible.

“I swear I have, Mr. Barnes. Since you wanna be so damn bossy tonight.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and crosses the room. Before Sam is ready, Bucky’s gently placing the ice pack on his shoulder. Sam can feel Bucky’s abs through the thin fabric of his tank top. He tries to ignore the feeling. 

“You don’t _have_ to do all of this,” Sam says. “I’m good.” 

Sam flinches and hisses softly as Bucky applies more pressure to the ice pack on his shoulder. The sudden coldness against the burning pain in Sam’s shoulder is both a relief and an irritant. Bucky glares down at Sam. 

“Yeah, that look you just gave me says you’re _real_ good,” Bucky says sarcastically. 

Sam’s cheeks burn, and he finds himself glowering at the floor. He squirms around on his bed, for no other reason other than his nerves are getting to him. Sam feels jittery, and the feeling makes him want to crawl out of his own skin. He’s being foolish, he’s being a _child._

Bucky sighs, and puts his metal hand on Sam’s waist, gently pressing his fingers into Sam’s skin. The jitteriness gets worse. 

“Calm down, would ya?” Bucky says. “You shouldn’t be doing all this moving with a jacked up shoulder.”

“Sorry,” Sam says, rolling his eyes. “Not all of us heal, alright? I don’t have super soldier serum or any supernatural abilities and whatnot.” 

Bucky hums, then chuckles quietly. Sam’s stomach is in knots. 

“You don’t really _need_ it,” Bucky mutters. “I’d say you just need to stretch a little more. Loosen those joints and muscles up a little.” 

Sam scoffs. He _would_ be head-over-heels for a rude centenarian. Sam oughta be ashamed of himself, really. 

“Very funny, old man,” Sam grumbles. 

“Oh, _I’m_ the old man?” Bucky asks playfully. “Which one of us needs the pain killers and Icy Hot right now?” 

Sam twists around and tries to scowl at Bucky. He fails. 

“Again, no super serum! I’m just regular!” 

Bucky snorts. “Yeah, whatever. I’ll be back.”

Bucky carefully pulls his hands away from Sam and walks out of the room. Sam reaches up and presses the ice onto his shoulder. He tries his hardest to not watch Bucky swagger out of the door: he keeps his eyes forward, glued to the wall ahead of him. Bucky’s only gone for a few minutes, but it feels like hours thanks to the pain in Sam’s shoulder. The discomfort brought on by the sudden loss of Bucky’s body heat doesn’t help the situation. 

But, soon enough, Bucky walks back into the room, holding an ice-cold bottle of water and two pain killers.

Bucky steps into Sam’s space, holding out the pills with a smile. 

“Here ya go, _pops_ ,” Bucky says smugly.

Sam rolls his eyes, but he holds out his free hand.

“Pops,” Sam mumbles as Bucky drops the pills into his hand. “You should really respect your Captain more, you know?” 

Bucky smiles as Sam tosses the pills into his mouth. “I couldn’t respect you more, Sammy.” 

Sam elects to ignore the look on Bucky's face and the chill that runs down his own spine as he takes the bottle of water out of Bucky’s hand. Sam gulps down the freezing water, hoping the sensation of it can distract from just how _close_ Bucky is. 

“ ‘Regular’ really isn’t the word I’d use for you, by the way,” Bucky says, his voice softer. 

Sam swallows and hopes his face is as blank as possible. 

“Really? What would you use then, Barnes?” 

Bucky narrows his eyes and smirks. 

“Not sure. But ‘regular’ definitely ain’t it.” 

Sam blinks. He feels uneven, what with Bucky looking at him like this. Like he’s teetering on a balance beam, too afraid to take another step forward to right himself. 

“There’s not that many words to use for someone like me,” Sam argues. “Besides maybe ‘crazy’ for putting myself through all _this._ ”

Bucky, still smirking, shakes his head.

“Nope, ‘crazy’ ain’t it, either,” Bucky says. “Not for doing this. If anything, you doing this without any serum or weird powers or whatever is one of the things that makes you amazing.”

Sam goes still. The breath in his lungs turns into a stone in the center of his chest, heavy, and tight, and overwhelming. 

Bucky’s words—they sound like something he’d say to Sam, something he’s been saying to Sam over and over again, but now Sam’s hearing something he hadn’t heard before. Sam’s listening to Bucky, and he’s hearing the way _he_ feels about Bucky, reflected back to him, bouncing into his own ears. 

That’s not possible, though. It was _never_ possible, as far as Sam knew. And yet . . . 

“Flattery won’t get you anywhere, Barnes,” Sam tries, his voice shaky, because he’s never fully sure. 

Bucky moves closer. Heat radiates from his skin, washing over Sam and making him dizzy. 

“Not trying to get anywhere with you, Sam,” Bucky says. “I’m just telling the truth about you.” 

Sam looks at Bucky. He knows his eyes are soft; he knows they’re filled with nervousness and hope and want and _love._ Sam’s been looking at Bucky like this for a while now. 

But it never once occurred to him that Bucky could return this look. That he saw in Sam what Sam sees in him. That he . . . that he might actually—

“Buck . . . what are you saying?”

Because Sam _needs_ to hear it. He needs to hear the words, otherwise he’ll never be able to believe that is actually happening. 

Bucky tenses. He looks down at Sam with lowered lids, peeking through his eyelashes. He gently, oh, so gently, touches Sam’s arm, his metal fingers light against Sam’s skin. 

“ . . . I’m saying I love you, Wilson.” 

Bucky’s voice is fraught with fear. But also, full of sincerity, and warmth and _love._

Sam could cry. He could burst into tears of relief, joy and love right now.

Bucky looks down, his eyes falling to the floor.

“I, uh . . . I get that you don’t. I understand if—”

Sam takes Bucky’s hand. Holds on for dear life.

“I do. Bucky—I swear I do.” 

Bucky eyes snap up, his eyes wary, a little dazed. He just stares, even as Sam squeezes his hand. 

“ _I love you_ ,” Sam says fiercely. Because Bucky, like Sam, needs to hear him say it, too. 

Sam can see Bucky turning the words over in his mind, letting all the pieces click into place. Bucky puts his free hand on Sam’s waist again, touching him as if he’ll break or disappear at any moment. 

And then, they slowly, carefully close the gap.

A kiss. The first one—first of many, many more. As wonderfully nerve-racking as Sam always wanted. 

Soft and chaste at first. Then, deeper. _Harder._


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoy! 🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰

+1

Sharon embarrasses the hell out of them when she finds out. 

Sam doesn’t even mean for her to find out about him and Bucky. He’d figured it really wasn’t SHIELD’s business. Sam and Bucky would carry on with their missions like normal, and Sharon and Maria would be none the wiser. They could stay in their own world for a little bit longer. 

But one day, Sam and Bucky get _distracted_ while working out, and Sharon finds them making out on the stairs of their backyard. 

“I knew it!” she says, entirely too delighted at the way Sam and Bucky stammer and blush. “I knew it!” 

“You know, we deserve _some_ privacy, right?” Sam demands with absolutely no heat in his voice. 

Sharon beams. All the professionalism she’d been trying for is gone at this point; the Agent 13, interim co-director SHIELD outfit has been traded in favor of being a nosy friend. It’s nice. Sam can (begrudgingly) admit that.

“Oh, your secret is safe with me.”

Bucky cuts his eyes at her. “You mean you and _Maria?_ ’

Sharon’s cheeks turn the faintest shade of pink. Sam decides to file _that_ away for later. 

“Me, Maria and absolutely nobody else,” Sharon says. “I promise.”

“I don’t believe that for a second,” Sam says with a smile. “But, okay.”

Sharon rolls her eyes, but smiles even wider. “Either way, I’m happy for you two.”

Sam looks over to Bucky. He’s blushing bright red, avoiding Sharon’s eye and peeking up at Sam through his eyelashes. Sam’s heart skips a beat at the sight.

“Thanks, Sharon,” Sam says, never once taking his eyes off of Bucky.

**

“You good over there, Cap?”

Sam snorts at the sound of Bucky’s voice floating through his earpiece. Because _of course_ Bucky’s checking on him while they’re lying in wait to ambush an arm’s dealer. 

Sam looks up through his goggles. They let him see Bucky from hundreds of yards away. Bucky, lying on his stomach, his finger pressed to his earpiece, a slight pout on his face as he waits for Sam’s response. 

“I’m good,” Sam answers. “You?”

“I’m _good_. Just kinda bored. I was having more fun when we were on the same side of the street, ya know?” 

Goodness, Sam can _hear_ Bucky smirking. Sam rolls his eyes. He’s really, _really_ in love with this ridiculous man.

“Missions aren’t about _fun_ , Barnes,” Sam says. “Need I remind you of that?”

“Actually,” Bucky says, his voice bordering on a purr, “I think I _do_ need a reminder.” 

Sam bites the inside of his cheek, because he is _not_ about to flirt with Bucky got damn Barnes while they’re on this mission. Sam is a responsible adult and an attentive Captain. He doesn’t need to be silly with his boyfriend on missions. 

But he can imagine the devious look on Bucky’s face, and he hears the heat in his voice, and he can feel his resolve beginning to crumble. Sam _does_ want to be near Bucky. He always does. He’s pathetic and hopeless in that way. 

The only thing that helps is that he knows Bucky always wants to be near him, too. 

“You know, you two lovebirds are really starting to distract me.”

Sharon’s taunting voice is a splash of cold water to Sam’s face. Without having to see him, Sam knows Bucky’s face just turned that particular shade of red. 

“I need you guys to _focus_ ,” Sharon adds with a laugh. “We worked pretty hard to get this intel.”

Sam chuckles to himself. Two can play at this game.

“Sharon, I’m sure you and Maria worked _real_ hard,” he says. “And Bucky and I greatly appreciate it.”

Sharon makes a tiny sound of surprise while Bucky laughs loudly. Sam holds onto the sounds; he wants to keep as close as he can. 

“Oh, hey,” Bucky says, mischief creeping into his voice, “I think I see our guy down there.”

Sam looks down to see the rickety truck they’ve been tracking rounding the corner and pulling down the street.

“Well, what do you know?” Sam grins. “It’s show time.”

**

So, there _is_ such a thing as “too much” training. 

Sam stretches out on Bucky’s bed, groaning as his body sinks into the mattress. He’s _tired_ , in every sense of the word _._ Back-to-back missions, working out too much. Sam aches all over. And not even in a good way. 

Bucky takes care of Sam, because of course he does. He rubs Sam’s legs and back, feeds him unhealthy snacks, and makes fun of him for being “so damn _stubborn_ , Wilson.” 

“I could’ve sworn I told you to chill out a little,” Bucky says as he massages Sam’s thigh. “Why don’t you ever listen to me?” 

Sam forces himself to not pout. He’s too old to pout, damn it. Plus, Bucky doesn’t need any more fuel to make fun of Sam’s sorry self. 

“I don’t listen to you because you’re a pain in my ass,” Sam grumbles. 

Bucky works out a tight spot in Sam’s thigh, and it takes everything in Sam’s power not to moan aloud. He will not give Bucky that satisfaction. 

A slick grin spreads across Bucky’s face, like he heard Sam’s thoughts for himself. 

“Pain in your ass, right. What would you do without me?” 

Sam bites his lip. “I’d finally live a quiet, peaceful life like I’ve always wanted.” 

Bucky hums, leans over and kisses Sam. And Sam’s weak and mushy, and he kisses back greedily. 

When they part, Bucky gives Sam a big, dopey grin.

“I highly doubt that. You love me.”

Sam puts a hand on Bucky’s cheek and softly runs his thumb against Bucky’s stubble.

“And you love me.”

Bucky looks him in the eyes and nods. His stare makes Sam feel weightless. 

“Sure do.” 

**

Sam thinks Bucky Barnes is going to be the death of him. 

Actually, Sam _knows_ Bucky Barnes is going to be the death of him.

Because right now, Sam’s covered a coat of sweat, and his toes are curled, and his abs have gone _tight_ , and it honestly feels like his heart’s going to beat out of his chest. It’s all entirely too much. 

But Bucky hits Sam’s spot every time he rolls his hips, and it feels too good. Sam’s just gonna have to fucked to death.

Bucky lays down on top of Sam, his chest pressed against Sam’s. His skin is wet and hot, and Sam tries his damnedest to press him even closer, as if he doesn’t already feel like he’s going to explode. 

Bucky kisses Sam’s lips, his cheek, his jaw, his neck, anywhere he can reach. Sam wraps his legs around Bucky’s waist, because he’s forgotten how to be ashamed or anything other wide open and wanting with Bucky. 

Sam just knows he wants Bucky. He wants him closer, and deeper, and harder, and _closer._

Sam will always want Bucky. And Bucky will always want him. 

**

“You know something, Sam . . .”

Bucky’s voice is muffled by the rush of the shower’s spray. Sam leans on Bucky, his back against Bucky’s chest, sighing as the hot water washes over them.

“What’s that?” 

Bucky rubs a circle on Sam’s thigh. “I sometimes think about how much you hated me when we first met. I was kinda scared you’d _always_ hate me.” 

Sam’s eyes fall shut. He chuckles to himself; he’ll never forget that first day, him and Bucky crammed into that tiny ass car near the airport. Both worn down, not knowing what the hell was coming next. 

“I don’t think I ever _hated_ you,” Sam says. “I just didn’t know you. And now I do. Can’t hate you now that I know you.” 

Bucky goes still and quiet. Sam opens his eyes, wondering if he’s said something triggering. But then Bucky laughs, just as devious as ever. 

“I’m going to hold that over you forever,” Bucky says. 

Sam rolls his eyes.

“Of course you are.” 

**

Sam lies in bed that night, sleep tugging at him. There’s no nightmares tonight, no insomnia or memories to haunt him. It’s just him and Bucky, tangled together, watching each other like most would watch the stars. 

They’re so gross and corny. But Sam appreciates it. 

“What’re you looking at?” Bucky mumbles. He’s only half-awake, and his words are barely audible, but there’s a bright gleam in his eyes as he looks at Sam.

Sam tries to swallow the lump forming in his throat, but it doesn’t budge. He wonders if this constant rush of emotion is a part of this new life, too. 

Oh, well. He might as well get used to it. 

Sam sighs, runs his hand up Bucky’s side, tries to not be overwhelmed by how _full_ he feels. By how much he loves this man, and how much this man loves him. 

“You, jackass. I’m just looking at you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this fic holds the record for quickest chapter fic I've ever finished lol. 
> 
> Thanks again for reading!


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